


START

by XtinaJones91



Category: The Americans (TV 2013)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Escape, F/M, Heavy Angst, Marriage, Relationship(s), Russia, Safehouses, Separations, Soviet Union, Spies & Secret Agents, Trains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-06-09 03:35:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15258537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XtinaJones91/pseuds/XtinaJones91
Summary: Originally an Elizabeth-centric introspection on various moments from the series finale (6x10 START), now a multi-chapter fic that explores what happens beyond the final scene.Latest chapter - Ch. 7, Philip's POV.Our former spies share a few peaceful moments together.





	1. Departure/Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> It took me awhile to get to the point where I could write a series finale fic. This is what came out.
> 
> SPOILERS if you have not watched Season 6 or the finale.

The moment his words filter through to her on the phone and penetrate her haze of perpetual exhaustion, her world immediately sharpens and narrows. Her purpose is now singular - there is room for nothing else.

_“Hi. I was hoping to make it home for dinner...”_

Innocuous words from a busy husband to the stay-at-home wife.

_“But things are very topsy turvy at the office.”_

A life, a family, crashes down.

She almost forgets her response, pauses a half-beat longer than she should.

_“I’m sorry to hear that. Try not to wake me up when you come in.”_

She hears him breathing on the other end of the line and then it goes dead. He couldn’t say anything else to her, though she’s sure he wanted to.

The incessant dial tone breaks her from her initial shock. She hangs up the phone and sprints for the stairs to the basement.

She knows what she must do. She was trained for this moment, prepared for this likelihood.

Their time is up.

* * *

She drives.

Her duffle bag feels like a bomb, loaded with so much damning evidence that if she gets stopped by anyone, _caught_ by anyone, it’s over.

She is on high alert.

She has to be careful enough to not be followed, but fast enough that she gets to the rendezvous point in time. It is a delicate balance she has treaded often, yet never with this much at stake.

Her mind races, thinks of necessities - escape routes, extraction plans for Paige and Henry, new identities for all of them.

She grips the wheel and checks her rearview mirror.

She’s still clean she thinks, hopes, _prays_.

She can ditch the car in another block or two, then walk the rest of the way through side alleys and back streets.

She thinks of Philip, the sound of his voice on the phone. Tense, on edge, but determined.

He will be there when she arrives at the warehouse.

He has to be.

* * *

The relief she feels when she slips through the door of the warehouse and finds him standing on the other side in the dark is indescribable.

She rushes forward, duffle still clutched tightly in her hands. He takes a step out of the darkness, his face bathed in a shaft of dim light.

She drops the duffle at their feet, takes him in, catalogues him in her mind. She grips him at the elbows; contact makes him real, alive.

“They were on Father Andrei,” he says. “I barely got out of there.”

Her grip on him tightens, his brow furrows. He does a catalog of his own and reaches for her. His hands find purchase at her waist and it grounds her, steadies her.

They are together now. Whatever comes next, they are together.

* * *

It is unfathomable, but she knows he is right.

The pain lodges itself in her chest, burrows deep and cracks her open with a grief she didn’t know was possible. Already she feels the loss keenly, like a gaping wound or missing limb.

She can’t look at Philip as he drives them to Paige’s apartment. To see her own anguish reflected back in his eyes would be too much.

* * *

Any other time and her daughter’s words would wound her and drive her to anger. But there is no time for reprimands and she is already numb with the decision they’ve made. What should be barbs glance off her like a paper cutting rock.

They have to go.

And she cannot leave both her children behind. She won’t.

She will make Paige come with them, even if it means she hates them for it.

A second separation would be too much. So her words come harsh and fast, commands, not requests.

They still have so far to go and so little time.

* * *

Stan.

He stands between her family and escape. She won’t call it freedom because it is not that, will never be that.

She watches and waits, lets Philip take the lead. She holds Paige back, listens to her husband’s words as he gives in and confesses.

She tracks Stan peripherally, but her eyes never leave Philip. Not for a moment does she doubt him. She knows he will weave the tale, tell it the way Stan needs it to be told.

Once the gun lowers, she tenses only at the mention of her son. Paige’s plea to Stan drives the knife deeper into her self-inflicted wound.

Finally, it ends.

They walk to the car, steps slow and measured. She remains ready to strike, ready to protect. Whatever will be necessary to get them out.

But the moment doesn’t come. They get in the car and drive away.

What they leave behind is not the man they met all those years ago.

* * *

They bury it all, what’s left of them. She keeps their true rings, grateful for their comforting weight. 

When she looks into the pit she does not see her past life. She only sees that which she must leave behind: the passport that they should be bringing to New Hampshire, not burying under feet of earth and stone.

She hopes they never find it.

Philip shovels in the first pile of dirt. The rest follow quickly.

* * *

They become their new identities, slip them on like too-tight second skins. What comes naturally to them still comes awkwardly to Paige.

She worries, but it will have to be enough. She didn’t have the time to prepare her for this, teach her everything she could. She didn’t think she’d have to. Now she never will.

They hot wire another car.

They drive.

* * *

Even now the words do not come easily. They will be the last she speaks to her son, and they will not come.

Not like they do for Philip. But even he struggles in an area in which he so often excels. The ache she feels is bone-deep as she watches him grip the phone and swallow down the lump in his throat.

When her time comes all she can do is parrot Philip’s words. He was always better at it anyways, and she can’t go too far off script.

They risk too much with this call, but she had to do it, had to have one more moment to hear his voice and memorize it so she can carry it with her in the long years ahead.

She will never see him again.

This is all they get.

* * *

She doesn’t want him to stay here, but she won’t stop him if that’s what he decides.

She needs him, she knows that now. They have been partners in everything.

To leave him behind, to lose him too…

She would get through it, but she’s so damn tired. She doesn’t know if she has enough left.

If he stays, she knows she will never see him again. She is sure of this. Not by his own choice. The risks will become too great. The FBI have too much information; they will find him. And she will never be told, never know what has become of him.

She watches him from the car and tries to picture what it will be like, with or without him.

Both are difficult to imagine. Either way it will not be easy. Everything will be different; it will be like starting over.

But the version without him is far worse.

* * *

She thought she knew pain, understood its peaks and valleys, how to tame it and control it.

But this…

She has never known _this_.

Her hand on the window does nothing. It barely holds her upright.

The shock freezes her. She should be getting up. She should be running off the train. She should be jumping onto the platform. She should be going after her daughter.

But she does none of these things; she can do none of these things.

The train pulls further away from the platform and she turns and suddenly Philip is there. She hadn’t noticed him.

She knows he shouldn’t be doing this, and he knows it too. His grip on her hand is tight, so tight. She squeezes back because it’s the only thing she can do without drawing further suspicion.

She can’t even look at him for more than a moment, can’t even lean into his shoulder and let him wrap an arm around her.

They can offer each other no more comfort than this: the simple knowledge that they are still in this together. They are not alone.

She stares straight ahead, jaw tight.

She holds onto his hand.

He doesn’t let go.

* * *

There are many miles left to go; the journey is long. Time stretches and collapses.

She is no longer afraid.

Let them capture her, let them take her.

But then she catches a glimpse of Philip in the crowd of the airport, from across the airplane aisle, ahead of her on another train, and she remembers. She hasn’t lost everything.

From the first train there is one plane and then another. Separate taxis and a second train. It is many hours until they can finally free themselves from their disguises and put on their new ones - Mikhail and Nadezhda.

When she is able, when it is safe, she goes to Philip and she lets him hold her. She allows herself a few moments of grief, to mourn what they have lost.

But even now they cannot dwell. They must continue on.

* * *

They drive in silence.

She does not know what she could say, and neither does he. There are no adequate words, so she chooses not to force them.

The landscape unfolds in the space beyond the confines of their car. She leans her head against the cool glass of the window and watches snow-capped trees tick by.

The vastness overwhelms her, but the emptiness comforts her.

They are alone for miles, their journey uninterrupted by any other travelers. There are few structures, just scattered farmhouses that dot the wide, open fields.

Beside her, Philip drives, his face stoic. Every now and then she feels his eyes on her, a glance for but a moment. She steals a glance or two back herself, a reassurance that he is there, that this is real.

Sometimes when he drives she sleeps. Never deeply, but her weariness drags her down, forces her eyelids to droop shut. Unlike on the plane, she does not dream. For this she is grateful.

Philip wakes her with a touch to the shoulder, a light squeeze, gentle yet firm.

She blinks back to consciousness and stretches her limbs.

It is dark now. They are pulled over on the side of the road on a patch of loose gravel. She works a Kink out of her neck and opens the car door.

The cold night air stings her cheeks and she becomes fully alert. The air is clean and crisp out here. She inhales and lets it needle her lungs.

She walks around the front of the car while Philip rounds the back.

In near tandem they slip back into the car and resettle, their positions swapped.

She grips the wheel and looks across at him in the dark. He does not shy away from her stare.

Far behind them pinpricks of light appear. His eyes dart to see them. She turns to check over her shoulder and then peels back onto the road.

It is strange to drive with another car behind them, but she goes fast enough that it never quite gets close.

Philip fiddles with the radio, catches only static, and gives up. The circles under his eyes are deep and dark. Within a few moments he slumps in his seat and closes his eyes.

She breathes out and resists the urge to reach for him while he slumbers, to lay a hand on his thigh, feel his warmth. Her fingers twitch against the steering wheel but she holds back.

She straightens her shoulders and focuses on the road as it unfurls in front of her in the beams of the headlights.

They aren’t there yet.

* * *

They switch drivers once more in the predawn hours and then they finally see it up ahead - a break in the trees on the roadside, and a car.

They pull up next to it; a man waits for them. Quickly, they get in the back of his car.

He reverses and pulls back onto the road. They speak the barest of pleasantries and then he is kind enough to leave them alone.

In the small confines of the backseat, Philip’s body heat envelops her. There is nothing for them to do now but wait while Arkady drives.

The exhaustion hits her all at once. Without a thought or hesitation, she leans into Philip, the solidness of his body a welcome presence beside her.

He shifts ever so slightly, subconsciously adjusts to let her fit more snugly against him. Her body melds into his and she closes her eyes.

The last things she is aware of are the scratch of his wool coat on her cheek and the steady rise and fall of his chest, his breaths in time with her own.

Outside a light snow falls, but she does not see it.

* * *

Time passes.

She wakes to darkness, Philip insistent at her side.

They step out into the night; the fog of their breaths hangs in the air like a spectre between them.

Ahead in the distance the muted glow of Moscow beckons.

They are here.

Next to her, Philip speaks. They exchange words, voices rough from sleep and disuse.

They try to murmur reassurances to one another, validations of their choices. When she gets back into the car she feels like they both missed their marks.

Arkady drives onward. The monolith of Moscow’s state university draws ever closer.

This is the start.


	2. First Night in a Strange Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is...the next installment in what will now be a multi-chapter fic that explores what happens to Philip and Elizabeth in the aftermath of the series finale.

It's nothing like he thought it would be. 

In all his visions of the future, his plans and his hopes, this was never one.

He truthfully didn't think he'd come back to Russia. That was always Elizabeth's goal: return home a hero or die admirably for their country.

He shared that sentiment for a brief period of time, in his early days of recruitment and training. Of course he was dedicated to the cause, chose to be a loyal soldier for as long as he could. But ultimately he wanted to be with his family, wherever they could go where they could safely be together.

As they built a life in America, their motherland became a faded memory, distant in both space and time. He looked back on his youth there with mixed feelings. It would always be where he was from, but that didn't make it his home.

Now here they are.

And nothing feels right.

* * *

The first night they stay on the outskirts of the city - a place that Arkady deems safe.

He is too tired to care about how safe they can truly be in the shadow of the institution's whose orders they chose to defy.

Their accomplishments and years of service should carry some weight and soften the blow, but how much he does not know. Arkady holds their security and well-being in his hands; he’s more than happy to let him take the lead for now. Let someone else worry for a change.

His body has no concept of what time it is when he crawls onto the barely comfortable bed in the room Arkady showed them to.

He toes off his shoes and fumbles to take off his pants and sweater before he falls back onto the bed. He lies there on his back and stares at the cracked, water-stained ceiling.

He hears the screech of the sink from the bathroom as Elizabeth turns off the water.

He wills himself to fall asleep before she come back into the room, but his body fails him.

Despite his exhaustion, his mind won’t shut off, overwhelmed with too many new sensations, too many old memories that roar to the surface, too many thoughts of what they left behind.

The bathroom door creaks open and Elizabeth steps into the room.

He doesn’t turn to look at her.

He hears her footsteps as she approaches the bed, feels the groan of the mattress springs and the dip of the bed as she sits on the edge, her back to him.

Neither of them speak.

He doesn’t know what to say to her or even in which language to say it.

What does he call her? Nadezhda now, always? Elizabeth still, at least in private? Or until she tells him to stop?

Both names feel wrong; it is a stark reminder of the seemingly endless string of challenges they will face here.

A minute passes, then two.

The only sound between them is the staccato drip of water from the leaky bathroom sink. Outside the streets are quiet; the rest of Moscow slumbers on, uninterested (for now) in its two new arrivals.

He throws a hand over his face and rubs his eyes - they itch with the combination of long hours traveled and minimal sleep in less-than-ideal places. He senses movement from the other side of the bed as Elizabeth gives in to her own tiredness and slips under the thin, rough sheets.

He expects her to stay on her side of the bed as she so often does, but she surprises him and instead rolls and shifts to tuck herself into his side. He drops his hand from his face and looks down.

Bleary, bloodshot eyes meet his equally battered ones. Something other than grief flickers inside him - his penchant desire to protect. He’s relieved to find he can still feel other emotions.

He wraps an arm loosely around his wife’s waist and turns his gaze back to the ceiling. If he stares at her too long, the dam inside him will burst, and he doesn’t have the energy or desire to deal with that right now.

Elizabeth settles herself against his chest and exhales. He closes his eyes and breathes in. He catches the faintest scent of her shampoo from home that somehow still lingers in her hair.

It jars him instead of comforts him, somehow out of place in this old, bare room, thousands of miles from the place where he last smelled it.

Like him, it doesn’t belong here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear there will be actual dialogue in the next chapter...maybe.  
> Let me know what you thought and if you have any ideas of what you think could/should/would happen to them now that they're back in Russia.


	3. No Rest for the Weary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay between chapters, comrades! Have no fear, this story will continue on. Thank you to everyone that read/kudoed/commented/bookmarked/etc. I appreciate it all.
> 
> The latest installment remains in Philip's POV as P&E grapple with their next move.

Things don’t look better in the morning.

He wakes to Elizabeth at his side, standing over him with a mug of coffee in her hands, proffered like a gesture of some sort.

He pushes himself upright and blinks himself awake.

He takes the mug from her hands. Not a word passes between them. He just holds the mug for awhile, watches as Elizabeth steps back, paces away, then paces back, then away again.

“Sit,” he finally says, and gestures to the end of the bed.

She does so and folds her hands in her lap, her body a straight line of tension.

He sips the coffee, swallows through its lack of taste, and observes his wife over the rim of the mug.

When it’s clear she won’t share whatever it is that has her like this, he takes it upon himself to relieve her of her burden.

“What is it?” he sighs.

She stares down at her hands then up at him.

He waits.

“We can’t stay here.”  
  
This is not unexpected - their time at this particular safe house was intended to be brief.

“We can’t stay in Moscow,” she goes on.

This, too, is not a surprise to him. He assumes they’ll need to lay low somewhere for awhile, until Gorbachev and his people get their shit together.

“Arkady wants me to go tonight. He’ll get me on a train east, to Samara most likely. You’ll leave tomorrow, head north. It’ll be remote, but you’ll be safe there. If we separate -”

“No.”

Elizabeth’s eyes dart to him, wide and pleading.

He sets the coffee mug down on the bedside table with such force that the remaining liquid sloshes up and over the side.

“You can’t seriously be considering that.”  
  
“I don’t like it any more than you do, but...separating makes it more of an effort for them to go after us if that’s what they decide to do. They’ve got enough to deal with right now that it will hopefully deter them for awhile. We’ll be able to wait out the worst of it safely.”   
  
“By splitting us up and making it _easier_ for them to grab one of us while we’re on our own if that’s what they want? By sending us off to remote locations where we’ll stick out like sore thumbs? No, we’re not doing this.”

He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up, body thrumming with energy.

“Where’s Arkady?”  
  
He moves to stride past Elizabeth and out of the bedroom, but she stands to block him. Her hands meet his chest and he pulls to a stop.

“It’s not safe enough for us here, not yet,” Elizabeth pleads. “We have to leave, we don’t have a choice.”

He takes her hands in his and stares into her eyes, wills her to hear his words and accept them.

“I am not going anywhere without you. We are doing this _together_ , just like we always have. Arkady can send us wherever he wants, but it’s _us_ , not you and me split apart and...and _alone_. Okay?”

His eyes stay locked with hers as he holds his breath and waits for her response, her inevitable counter to his claims and reasoning.

But it doesn’t come.

Whatever she sees written on his face must convince her because she nods, shakily and almost immediately.

“Okay,” she says, voice raw. “We’ll tell him we’re going together. No questions.”

He breathes a sigh of relief - relief that she agrees, relief that she’s not going to fight him on this, relief that he doesn’t have to lose her so soon after…

He’s cut off from that line of thought when Elizabeth unexpectedly wraps her arms around him and lays her head on his shoulder. It takes him a moment to process and then he responds in kind.

They stand there and he holds her, feels what can only be her relief as her tension from earlier seeps out of her body.

He pulls her closer and dusts a kiss to the top of her head, beyond grateful to learn that she was against their potential separation just as much as he was.

She wants to stay with him.

But for how long?

 

* * *

 

 

They make a compromise with Arkady - they’ll leave Moscow tonight for Samara, together, to wait things out.

He thinks all of this is a bit much, but he goes along with it. If the Centre wanted them gone, they’d have kept them out of the country. Elizabeth, for once, is the less trusting one, and he doesn’t want to argue. He’s so tired of it. It’s all they’ve done for the last three years.

It doesn’t matter much to him where they go, whether they stay in Moscow or leave, go off into the countryside or the mountains, travel from city to city in this vast nation until they reach the other side. None of it changes anything. They’ll still be in a place they don’t belong - strangers in their birth country. They’ll still have to re-learn things, find ways to fit in, create new lives.

They’ll still be separated from their children, forever.

They have to confront that eventually.

He wonders which of them will break first.

A throat clears behind him and rouses him from his thoughts.

He turns toward the safe house and sees Elizabeth on the back porch bathed in the soft light from the kitchen behind her.

“We’re leaving in an hour,” she says.

“I know,” he replies and looks away into the darkness of the yard.

“It’s cold,” she adds, as if he doesn’t notice it.

His memories of frigid Russian winters with barely enough fuel for a real fire are still vivid in his mind. This late evening chill? He barely feels it.

He doesn’t respond and he hears her sigh. He can see without looking at her how she holds herself: arms folded to ward off the chil, shoulders high and tight while she debates what, if anything, to say next.

“I’ll be right in,” he says, more to the night than to her. There’s no reason for him to be petty when it will do neither of them any good.

“Okay,” is all he gets back before he hears the back door click shut.

The darkness swaths him once again. He turns his head to the night sky and exhales, watches as his breath crystallizes and floats into the air above him. Higher in the sky the pinpricks of familiar constellations blink back at him - Ursa Major and Minor, Cassiopeia, Draco.

The same stars but a different sky.

He pulls his coat tighter around himself and tramps back inside.

His wife waits, and they have many miles to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feedback is welcome/appreciated. 
> 
> I know some of you may be skeptical about the direction I've taken this in, but I don't think things would've gone immediately smoothly for them with the Centre when they first get back to Moscow. They also could be over or under estimating the threat - who can they really trust anymore? Working with what little info they do have, on little to no sleep, after a harrowing and traumatizing few days, at least one of them is bound to be over-paranoid and thinking slightly irrationally. 
> 
> Anyhow, that's my reasoning behind it - happy to hear counter points as to why this wouldn't happen/thoughts on what you think should happen to them next. 
> 
> In the end, this is secretly just a story about how many trains I can make P&E take each chapter :)


	4. The Last Train

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My continual thanks to you all for giving this work a read.
> 
> This chapter is a small bit of filler, but gets us (and the Jennings) where they need to go. I've already got the next chapter written and hope to have it posted within a day or two.
> 
> We're still in Philip's POV as he and Elizabeth travel to Samara.

It’s a two-day affair to get to Samara. All they’ve done for the last… he doesn’t even know how many days anymore, is travel. Move from place to place, transit stop to transit stop. If he doesn’t see the inside of a train car for a few years, it’ll be too soon.

The route to Samara takes them to parts of the country he’s never seen before: Kolomna, Ryazan, Penza, Kuznetsk, Syzran. Tobolsk, his birthplace, is much further east, whereas Smolensk, Elizabeth’s city of origin, lies far behind them west of Moscow.

Located at the confluence of the Volga and Samara rivers, the city reminds him of his childhood home. He wonders if Elizabeth feels that connection too. They never spoke much about that part of their lives. He often wishes they had; he thinks it might have brought them together sooner.

He could ask her now. They are free to talk about their true pasts, she cannot reprimand him for doing so. But he choose not to and instead busies himself prepping their luggage for their arrival at the train station.

Arkady provided them with a suitcase each full of clothes and other supplies. Whatever he deemed two Russian citizens traveling such a distance should have with them under the guise of a business trip. He’s grateful, of course. He knows they could be worse off, but going all this way still feels a bit like overkill to him.

He could tell by Elizabeth’s body language throughout the trip that she feels the opposite. She’s been looking over her shoulder the whole time, tense and on alert. For what, he doesn’t know. But then again, he’s been out of the field for three years and he knows very little about what she was up to before her work for the summit took over everything.

The train slows to a crawl as they enter the station. He retrieves their bags from the overhead compartment and places them at his feet. Still in her seat by the window, Elizabeth scans the sparse crowd on the platform. If she sees anything or anyone suspicious, she doesn’t say.

The conductor announces their arrival and the train comes to a final halt. Passengers scramble for their belongings, everyone anxious to be off the train and out of the confined space.

Elizabeth makes no move to leave, eyes still transfixed on something out the window. He wonders if she actually sees anything out there is replaying the events of their escape to the Canadian border.

He knows it has not been far from his own mind this entire trip. Every time the train stopped and people got off and on he found himself looking, hoping to catch a glimpse of her even though he knew it wasn’t possible. His weary mind played tricks on him - made him think he saw a shock of her hair on a young woman several rows in front of them, heard her voice as a passenger walked down the aisle and chatted with her friend.

It was worse when he slept. The clack of the wheels on the tracks made a discordant lullaby that jolted him awake at regular intervals. In the darkness of their compartment it would take him a moment to orient himself, remember where he was, who was with him and who was not.

They had a narrow bunk and he was grateful to sleep alone. He still wasn’t ready to face his wife yet, to acknowledge and discuss their new reality. They were both taking things as they came - surviving from one moment to the next in the only way they knew how, the way they’d been trained to do.

Elizabeth still hasn’t moved and passengers have started to disembark.

“Готов ( _Ready)_?” he asks.

She startles and turns toward him. He’s surprised to catch her off guard. It confirms his suspicion that she was somewhere else in her head, not really seeing the world outside her window.

“Да ( _Yes)_ ,” she replies, and stands quickly.

They each take a bag and exit the train. Their first steps onto the platform are hesitant and unsure. He looks around, tries to identify something familiar. Large chunks of his Russian are rusty with disuse. Finally, he spots it - the sign for the taxi stand.

He nods in its direction and Elizabeth follows after him, positioned in the way she used to be when they were out in the field together and watching each other’s backs. It brings a strange sense of comfort to him and suddenly he’s at ease for the first time in days.

If he treats this like a mission, maybe he can get through it. In a way, that’s exactly what this is - their deep cover operation in America, but reversed. They haven’t been these people - Mikhail and Nadezhda - in decades. To become them again will take more than a new set of identification papers and a switch back to their mother tongue.

He knows Philip, not Mikhail; Elizabeth, not Nadezhda.

He glances down at the wedding band on his finger. He’s _married_ to Nadezhda. At least in the eyes of the Russian Orthodox Church. Father Andrei’s words from that day rush back to him: _“You will be married. As for the state, whoever comes to Moscow first will have to file the paperwork.”_   
  
Will they? Or will this marriage exist as their previous one had - only partial in its legitimacy?

He shakes the question from his head and refocuses on the task at hand. His field work’s out of practice if he gets off track with just a glance at a ring. Behind him and just out of his right periphery, he sees Elizabeth, present and determined as always.

Ahead a small line of taxis waits. Their exhaust pipes puff out clouds of fumes and smoke that hover above them in the cold air.

He assesses the drivers as they approach. A few wait outside their vehicles, smoking and muttering to each other. The rest remain in their cars, uninterested in waiting out in the cold.

He chooses one of these, further toward the rear of the line. He has to rap on the window to get the driver’s attention. He gives the man an address for one of the hotels in the city center - a place where business travelers tend to stay. It’s not actually where he and Elizabeth will be spending their hopefully brief residence here, but it fits the part.

The taxi trundles along the road in fits and starts. Like most things here, the car is outdated and in need of repair. Finally, they arrive.

The doorman of the hotel stands stoic as they unload their bags and pay the driver. Philip puts on a show of searching through his pockets for a slip of paper with the address of another nearby hotel on it. He squints down at the paper then up at the hotel marquee. The doorman is unmoved by this display, and the taxi driver has gone.

Elizabeth pretends to be angry and he apologizes to the doorman. He gives them a glare and points down the road in the direction of the other hotel. They nod their thanks and set off down the road. Night has begun to fall and storefront lights start to sputter on.

They trudge along, wait until they are out of sight of the hotel, and then cut down a side street. They both have a detailed layout of this part of the city memorized - enough to get them where they need to be quickly and inconspicuously.

A few cross streets later and they have arrived - a concrete monolith of apartments that houses their temporary living space rises before them. Soon they will just be two of the hundreds of tenants that occupy this building. It is just the kind of anonymity they need.

They stand on the sidewalk for a moment and gaze up, then turn to each other. With the subtlest of nods they step forward.

This is their life now.


	5. A Visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief note on how I'm handling the whole "what language are they speaking?" thing - in the previous chapter I included the Russian with the English translation in parentheses because they spoke very little to each other.  
> In this chapter, consider all the dialogue spoken between the characters done so in Russian.
> 
> And another brief note - regarding historical accuracy: I am by no means an expert on the Cold War or Russian history. I'll probably keep most references to these types of things purposefully vague. Obviously I won't ignore things like the fall of the Berlin Wall (depending on how the story plays out), but I'll be making the Centre behave the way I want and not get too deep into the inner workings of Gorbachev's government.
> 
>  
> 
> With all that out of the way...I give you, Chapter 5. Much longer than Ch. 4, and from Elizabeth's POV.

The apartment is sparse and Philip is distant.

Despite the physically small area they are confined to, the space between them feels cavernous. She finds herself having to be the one to reach out, to engage. It is an unexpected and uncomfortable role reversal.

Her husband is at times responsive and at others resistant. She cannot get a read on him.

They speak to each other in halting Russian, incidentally slipping back to English from time to time. For the first few days they continue to call each other by their American names and try out their given names sparingly.

' _Mikhail'_  feels drastically different on her tongue than ' _Philip_ .' She never called him by any nickname in their previous life. Here, it would be customary for her to call him ' _Mischa_ ' or another diminutive.

Irina called him that, went so far as to name her son the same.

It feels wrong to use it.

To hear ‘ _Nadezhda_ ’ from his mouth feels equally as strange. It’s far too formal of a name for him to call her, but he doesn’t stray from it.

Their conversations, few as they are, go on in this stilted fashion. She knows one day it will become second nature again; their native tongue will feel less foreign. Until then, they muddle through as they do with nearly everything else.

Philip spends as little time in the apartment as possible. He rises early, puts on a thick wool coat, wraps a scarf around his neck, and leaves.

She does not know where he goes, and she does not ask.

He always returns in time for dinner, and never comes back drunk. She almost wishes he would, so she could have something to get angry at him for.

In his absence she sits in the emptiness and fights off the demons that haunt her. She tries not to think of her children, but it becomes too much of an effort to maintain. She finds it is easier to wallow in the pain, to let it in and embrace it, than to pretend it doesn’t exist.

She wonders what they are doing, if they are together. What Henry thinks of them now, if he thinks of them at all.

She questions what she could have done to make Paige stay with them, if there was anything that would have actually convinced her.

In turns she blames herself, then Philip, Claudia, the Centre, Pastor Tim.

Who is at fault is a moot point when the outcome remains the same: she will never see her children again.

Life carries on in this purgatory-like stasis for a month.

They hear little from the Centre - sporadic messages passed on to them through Arkady. Nearly all say the same thing - stay put, you’ll be called back to Moscow when the time is right.

She takes up _knitting_ of all things, something to busy her hands with and distract her mind as she stays in the silence of their apartment. She knits without any real purpose, squares and rectangles that eventually become blankets or scarves. A pair of gloves. Socks for Philip that she places in his drawer while he’s out.

He doesn’t openly acknowledge them, but she knows he wears them because they appear in their laundry every week.

This becomes their routine - a shared life lived in separate solitude.

One night after they’ve had dinner there is a knock on the door.

They both startle and go still; the knock echoes across the apartment like a gunshot that’s gone off in an empty warehouse.

Their eyes meet across the room and Philip nods to the bedroom where their guns lie in wait, resting in bedside drawers.

She rises and goes to get them while Philip approaches the door noiselessly.

The knock comes again, this time slightly more insistent.

She returns to the front room, passes Philip his gun and cocks her own.

He flicks off the lights and she takes a protected position in the kitchen.

Her eyes adjust to the dark and find Philip’s.

She counts to three in her head and watches as he moves, swings the door open and hides himself behind it, gun aimed as he waits.

The light from the hall casts their unknown visitor in shadow.

She holds her breath and waits, finger poised on the trigger of her gun.

“Is this really necessary?” a familiar voice asks as the figure steps into the room and flicks on the lights.

She stifles a gasp and lowers her weapon.

Philip steps from behind the door and quickly closes it.

“What are you doing here?” Philip asks.

“Hello to you, too, Mikhail,” their visitor replies as he struggles out of his coat.

On instinct she steps forward to help him.

“Nadezhda,” he says, and smiles at her in such a familiar, fatherly way that her heart clenches.

“Gabriel,” she responds, over the initial shock of seeing him in their apartment.

Philip stays by the door, still wary.

Gabriel eases himself into a chair at their small kitchen table.

She stands with his coat in her hands, unsure of what to do next.

“How about a cup of tea?” he asks.

“Of course,” she replies. She drapes his coat on the arm of their threadbare couch and heads across the room to the stove.

“Do sit, Mikhail,” Gabriel invites Philip.

Philip doesn’t, but he steps closer.

“What are you doing here?” he asks again.

“It’s been a long time. I wasn’t sure this day would come, or that I might be alive to see it,” Gabriel says, blatantly ignoring her husband’s question.

The kettle warms on the stovetop as she gathers chipped cups and saucers and sets them on the table.

“It is good to see you both,” Gabriel says, still smiling. “I hope you’ve been treated well enough.”  
  
Philip crosses his arms. She can see the his barely-contained frustration simmering just below the surface.

“What do they want?” he asks, voice even shorter than before.

Before Gabriel can dodge the question for a third time, the kettle whistles.

She rushes to lift it from the stove and turn off the heat.

“Please, Mikhail, sit,” Gabriel tries again. “There is much for us to discuss. A cup of tea will make it more pleasant for us all.”

Philip rolls his eyes and slides into the chair across from Gabriel. She fills all their cups and returns the kettle to the stove.

When she joins them, Gabriel looks between the two of them like he used to back in D.C. - a handler evaluating his assets.

Philip stares straight at him, eyes steely and back straight. He doesn’t look at her.

Gabriel watches them both, silent. His smile dims somewhat. He lifts his cup of tea to his lips and slowly sips it. He settles the cup back on the saucer; his old hands tremble.

“You’ve come a long way,” he finally says. “Sacrificed a great deal.”

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Philip tense. She clasps her hands tightly in her lap, hidden under the table.

“The Centre appreciates and is grateful for your many years of productive service to our country. What you two accomplished in your time in the United States, all the intel you passed on, the agents you recruited, the training you did with Paige -”

Philip slams his hands onto the table.

Cups rattle.

She flinches.

“Don’t,” he seethes. “You don’t get to talk about her. Not now, not ever.”

For a brief moment she sees grief and regret flash across Gabriel’s eyes. Just as soon as she sees it, it’s gone.

“Okay,” Gabriel agrees. “Okay.”

He sips his tea again. Hers and Philip’s remain untouched.

“I’ll be brief then,” he says, tone more business-like than before. “While the Centre acknowledges what you’ve done and the significant impact you’ve had on their ability to gather intelligence vital to their efforts both at home and abroad, you understand that the country is changing rapidly. We approach a monumental crossroads, a watershed moment if you will. To recognize you openly in any way would be a detriment to the goals of the Party as they currently stand.”

Philip looks to her, questions in his eyes that she cannot answer. She knows as much as he does. She senses that whatever Gabriel is about to say will shape the direction of their lives here.

Gabriel takes their silence as permission to continue.

“It has been decided that you need not return to Moscow. In fact, it is strongly advised that you do so in the future only if there is a personal administrative need, or if travel to other locations must take you through the city.”

She watches Philip for his reaction as she processes what Gabriel has just told them. It sounds like a partial exile.

“Where do they want us to go then?” Philip asks.

“Wherever you’d like,” Gabriel answers. “Within the borders of the Soviet states, of course. Funds will be provided for whatever you decide, the Centre doesn’t intend to abandon you.”  
  
No, just place them in quasi-exile and keep them as hostages in their own country.

“How generous of them,” Philip says, not bothering to hide his sarcasm.

Gabriel ignores it with aplomb.

“You don’t have to decide tonight. You’re welcome to stay here for as long as you like. Though better accommodations can be provided.”

She thinks of a larger apartment, or a house with more rooms - more space to fill with their strained silences and permanent ghosts.

“That won’t be necessary,” she starts to say.

“We’ll consider it,” Philip interrupts on top of her words.

Gabriel gives them a knowing look, as if this one exchange reveals to him the true state of things between them.

He drains the remainder of his tea and returns the cup to its saucer.

“Well, I think I’ve worn my welcome out long enough. Thank you, Nadezhda, for the tea.”  
  
He stands and they both rise to their feet. She retrieves his coat and follows him and Philip to the door.

“Why did they send _you_?” Philip asks as she helps Gabriel back into his coat.

“I asked to do it,” Gabriel responds, as though this should be obvious to them. “I was responsible for you for a long time, forgive me if I can’t quite shirk that duty.”

Philip has the decency to look ashamed for the first time all night.

Gabriel stands by the door and takes the two of them in, his face tinged with nostalgia and sadness.

“I know you may not believe me, but I do still care for you both. What happened to you was painful and traumatic, I understand that. You have no choice now but to soldier on. Yes, it will be difficult. But you still have each other - do not forget that.”

He opens the door, turns to face them one last time.

“I doubt we will see each other again. It has been an honor and a privilege to serve you both. Farewell.”

And with that, he is gone.

Silence descends on them once again, and if it weren’t for the three cups of tea still on the kitchen table, one empty and the other two full, she’d think she imagined the whole thing.

Philip retreats to the couch, body bent, face in his hands. She approaches tentatively and eases herself down on the opposite end, a full body’s width of space between them.

Not for the first time, she wonders what will happen next. Gabriel’s parting words rattle around in her head.

Where will they go? What will they do?

She looks at Philip who remains hunched over, her presence unacknowledged.

Will they stay together?

She has no idea what he wants. She barely knows herself what _she_ wants.

But one of the few things she does know is this: she isn’t ready to be without him.

With a deep breath she crosses the divide and places a hand on his tense shoulder blades. He looks up at her, an unspoken question in his eyes.

“Where should we go?” she asks.


	6. A New Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, I'm still mad at the Emmy's for snubbing Keri and the show in the best drama category...  
> Turns out that was excellent fuel to get me writing again. Gosh, I miss these characters.
> 
> Thank you to all the readers of this story thus far, your comments and kudos keep me going.
> 
> As with the previous chapter, assume all spoken dialogue is in Russian.

They decide to stay in Samara. It’s a good a place as any to finally start the next phase of their lives. To return to either of their childhood cities would be too much. There is nowhere they can go that will truly feel like a home, like a place they belong.

In the end, the decision is an easy one.

It’s time for their long journey to come to an end.

Philip convinces her that a slightly larger, more modern apartment will be better for them both. There is an unspoken agreement between them that a house is more than they need or want; all the empty rooms would serve only as constant painful reminders.

That night, for the first time in a long time, Philip reaches for her when she comes to bed.

Not for sex - they haven’t been together in that way since her attempt to seduce him into helping her with Kimmy. It wasn’t long after that that he revealed his own betrayal. The fact that they both played the other, manipulated each other like one of their targets, was an indicator of just how far apart they’d become within their partnership - and their marriage.

She knows it won’t be easy to repair, to build that trust back up between them. They’ll have nothing but time now to do it.

As she lies in Philip’s arms in the darkness of their bedroom, she feels less wary of their future, less uncertain.

Philip’s hand runs a soothing pattern up and down the exposed skin of one of her arms.

They are both still awake, still processing Gabriel’s visit and the decision they’ve made. With the darkness as her shield, she feels she can finally ask something that’s been on her mind since they arrived here.

“Where do you go?:” she murmurs into the darkness.

His hand stills but stays on her arm, the skin of his palm rough and warm.

“What do you mean?” he asks back.

“In the mornings, when you leave. Where do you go?”   
  
He inhales and exhales; she rises and falls on his chest with the movement.

“I...I don’t go anywhere, really,” he says. “I just...walk.”

It sounds like too simple of an explanation, so she waits for him to continue.

“I mean, I stop from time to time. Get a coffee, something from a street vendor. Some days I walk along the river, sit on a bench and just watch the boats and the people go by. Wonder where they’re going, what they’re doing.”

She swallows and steels herself for her next question.

“I need to ask you something else. Just promise you’ll say the truth.”   
  
She feels him nod against the crown of her head.

“Of course.”   
  
She forces the words out.

“Are you...do you ever...talk to anyone? Meet with anyone?”

She doesn’t need to tell him what she really means. He knows.

“I talk to people if it’s necessary,” he starts. “Or if someone happens to greet me on the street when they pass me by. I usually don’t say much. But...”   
  
She waits for what comes next. Holds her breath in the silence of his pause. She would understand if he says yes. What does she have to offer him as a wife? What has she ever had?

“Nadezhda,” he goes on, and it’s not what she was expecting, to hear him say her name like that, to hear him say her name at all.

She looks up at him, wants to see his face when he says it.   
  
“There is no one else. There’s only you.”

The last time he said those words to her, they were a lie, and their marriage was pushed to the point of separation. He has no reason to lie to her now, and she has no choice but to believe him.

She pushes herself up so she can look down at him properly. His face is earnest and open, the most she’s seen it like this since they arrived in Samara, since they lost their children.

There is nothing they can hide from each other anymore. They are both rubbed raw and cut open for the other to see.

He reaches for her, cups her face in his hands and weaves his fingers into her hair.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. His voice breaks. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t need to say what for.

She closes her eyes against the tears that well up too quickly for her to stop them. She’s held them back for so long now.

His thumbs catch them on her cheeks as they fall, and he brushes them aside. He is light with his touch, tender and soft. She revels in it after so long without it, needs more.

As she leans forward into him he pushes himself up and meets her halfway until they’re both sitting, wrapped around each other. Foreheads touch as breaths mingle, heavy and broken as they both give in to the grief that they carry. 

Her hands fist his shirt at his back; she clings to him and he to her.

He murmurs apologies over and over into her hair. His words become a jumble of Russian and English, alternate between pleas for forgiveness and promises he swears to keep.

Her own thoughts are a mess, a mix of emotions too turbid and overwhelming for her to comprehend or voice. All she can get out is a request, her own plea to him.

“Stay, Mikhail. Stay.”

“Of course,” he agrees. “Of course.”

She buries her face into his neck and inhales the salt of his skin. Her tears subside and she hears his breathing even out. She knows this is only the beginning, the first of many difficult steps they must take. It will continue to be a struggle for both of them. 

But maybe together they’ll get through it and learn to tolerate it, to cope, to  _ live. _

 

* * *

 

In the morning she wakes and expects to find him still next to her in bed. After their shared moment of weakness last night, she thought things would continue in a more positive direction. She tries to quell the disappointment that rises within her when she rolls over only to be met by empty sheets.

She sighs and rubs her temples as she sits up. She can feel a headache coming on, building in her skull.

It isn’t until she’s gotten out of bed, freshened up in the bathroom, and pulled on her robe that she notices it.

The smell of coffee and the sounds of someone in the kitchen.

She eases the bedroom door open slowly and creeps down the short hallway toward their living room and kitchen. She peers around the corner and an unexpected but welcome sight greets her: her husband at the stove, making breakfast.

She must not have been as quiet as she thought, because he turns and sees her.

He greets her with a smile, small and tenuous. There’s a hopeful light in his eyes. She can’t help but smile back.

“I made breakfast,” he says, stating the obvious.

She finds his nervousness endearing and she laughs in spite of herself. She wonders if this is what it would have been like had they lived that other life, met on a bus somewhere in Moscow.

“I see that,” she replies, and enters the kitchen.

His cheeks redden and he spins back to the stove to check whatever it is he’s cooking.

She approaches from behind and slips her arms around his waist while she gets on her toes to peek over his shoulder.

“Smells good,” she says.   
  
“The eggs are done,” he says, nodding toward the table. “These syrniki just need a few more minutes.”

She releases her husband to pour herself a cup of coffee.

“I can’t remember the last time I had syrniki,” she says after her first sip of caffeine. “We never had the money for the cheese.”   
  
Philip scoops the little pancakes onto plates and joins her at the table.

“We didn’t either. I think my mother made them for me once, on my birthday.”   
  
“Well, they look amazing.”

He smiles at her over the rim of his coffee cup.

They eat in silence for a few minutes, neither sure what to say next. She’d forgotten what it was like to be with him like this, to just be able to enjoy a moment of peace.

“I was thinking of going for a walk later,” he says, the silence broken.

She looks up at him from across the table, her heart hopeful.

“Would you...do you want to join me?”

“Yes,” she answers hurriedly, her voice barely steady. “I’d like that.”   
  
“Good. I’m - that’s good.”

She stifles a laugh at his awkwardness. His eyes dart downward and then back up again, his face full of long-forgotten joy.

She grins her way through the rest of breakfast, lighter than she’s felt in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this turned into a sappy mess by the end! But our angst-filled former spies deserve a spot of happiness. While this chapter started to feel like a conclusion, I think I've got more chapters in me.


	7. Gifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that continues to read this even though the show ended in May.
> 
> In this chapter we return to Philip's POV, and things continue on in an unexpectedly sappy manner.

They move to their new apartment, closer to the river, and day by day they build a new life.

He relishes every moment he can, clings to all the good and tries to push away the bad. They become creatures of habit: a walk in the morning, breakfast together, something in the afternoon to fill their day - reading, shopping, another walk, a movie. Elizabeth continues to knit, and her projects quickly fill their apartment.

At first, her new hobby surprised him, but when he sees her at it, he understands why it fits. She follows the patterns with precision and focus, repeats a motion over and over again, connects seemingly unrelated shapes into a larger whole.

As winter continues on, the night and the days cold and dark, he realizes that they missed both Christmas and New Year’s. The holidays were nearly a month ago, passed them by while they were in Centre-imposed limbo, still buried in a haze of grief and uncertainty.

In some ways he is grateful they forgot. Acknowledging the days would have brought more hurt than joy. But he wants to do something for her, his wife, and he needs the excuse of a holiday to pass it off as acceptable.

At least that’s what he thinks at first, their old way of living with each other still ingrained in him. The memories of past gift exchanges still linger.

But it’s not like that between them any more. Or at least, it doesn’t have to be, This is his chance to do things properly this time. No threats hang over them, there are no more missions to carry out, their partnership is no longer borne out of a necessity for their cover.

He can buy his wife a gift if he wants, and he doesn’t need a manufactured reason or excuse.

And so he offers to do the food shopping the next day, but he makes a detour on his way there and hides his purchase in the inner pockets of his thick winter coat.

Their apartment is larger now, but there’s still not a lot of places he can hide something from his wife. She’s a former KGB spy for God’s sake, through and through. But he still has his own tricks from back in the day, and so he stashes his secret horde in his gym bag. He knows it’s not something his wife actively searches for or in.

He waits a few days until it’s his night to cook dinner.

He makes a fancier spread than is normal for them and splurges on a bottle of wine. The Centre provides them with a monthly stipend to live comfortably, but he tries to respect his wife’s preference for frugality. It’s only toward the end of their meal that she lets on that she suspects something.

“What was the occasion?” she asks, brow crinkled as she tries to recall the date and any possible significance tied to it.

“Does a husband need an occasion to dote on his wife?”  
  
She rolls her eyes at him in that way that he knows means she’s only feigning exasperation.

“No, but we don’t normally do…” she gestures to the remains of their nice dinner, the wine, the small vase of flowers on the table. “...all this,” she finishes.

“Well, maybe we should,” he suggest, heart in his throat. “Not _every_ night, of course. But once in a while.”   
  
She cocks her head and considers him for a moment. He wonders what it is she’s looking for.

“Okay,” she agrees.

He was prepared to argue, to defend his position, but she catches him by surprise with the ease of her answer.

“Okay,” he parrots back while he composes himself. “In that case, I hope you don’t mind that I got you something.”  
  
Her eyes widen slightly and he smirks. Now it’s his turn to put her off balance.

“What?”

He gets up from the table before she can say anything else.

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing fancy or elaborate,” he calls over his shoulder as he goes to the closet to retrieve the gift.

Her eyes narrow warily as she watches him pull down his gym bag from the shelf above their coats.

“What are you -”

“Shhh, patience,” he teases.

He returns to the table, his gift in hand: two rectangular items wrapped in simple brown paper, one slightly larger than the other. He places them before her and clears his throat.

“Like I said, it’s not extravagant or expensive or anything. I just thought you should have them again.”

He clasps his hands behind his back and shifts from foot to foot.

She eyes him and then the items on the table.

She picks up the smaller one first and carefully slides her finger under the tape. She peels the paper back enough to see what’s inside and stops.

“Philip.”

She only calls him that nowadays by accident, usually when she’s riled up about something and her brain falls into old habits. But it doesn’t sounds like that now, her voice thick with a different emotion.

She looks up at him and he nods for her to continue. She slides the item free from the paper and places it gently on the table. She reaches for the other object and opens it more hastily. It’s obvious to her by now what it is.

She frees the sketchbook from its wrapping and it joins the pack of art-grade pencils and charcoal on the kitchen table.

She stares down at them, runs her fingers over the spiral of the notebook in a reverent caress.

She hasn’t said anything else and he starts to worry he made a mistake, that it was too much too soon, a reminder of the past she wasn’t ready to return to yet, or maybe ever.

He rushes to explain, to apologize.

“I thought you might want to keep doing it. Drawing. It seemed to - but if it’s not - I can just bring it back and we can forget all this.”  
  
His palms sweat and his arms dangle loosely by his side.

Still she says nothing. She hasn’t even looked at him.

She opens the pack of pencils and charcoal and carefully shakes a few out.

“These are nice,” she says, voice quiet.

His heart leaps and he grasps at the opening she offers.

“I asked for good ones - at the shop. Didn’t really know what I was looking for,” he quietly laughs.

She slides the pencils back into their box.

Finally, she turns to him. He’s taken aback by the unexpected shine of unshed tears in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she says.

He nods, swallows thickly.

“I just...want you to be happy.”

In a swift motion she pushes her chair back and rises from the table. She stands directly in front of him now and takes his hands in hers. He looks down and locks eyes with her. He could never look away from her - not then, not now, not ever.

“Mikhail,” she starts. “How could you think that I’m not - why wouldn’t I be -” she struggles to find the words she wants.

“You don’t have to be,” he offers. “It’s ok if you’re not. Hell, _I’m_ not.”   
  
She steps back a fraction, hurt flashing in her eyes, but he holds her hands fast in his.

“Not all the time,” he adds. “Some days...yes. I wake up and it’s not so bad. It doesn’t hurt as much. Other days...other days every moment is a constant battle. But I fight through it. And the only reason I can do that is _you_. Because you’re here and that makes everything else…”

She squeezes his hands and finishes the sentence for him, gives him the words he can’t say on his own.

“Easier,” she says, a hitch in her voice. “Being with you makes it easier to deal with...all of it.”

He doesn’t know if she just means now, or throughout their partnership, but he doesn’t care.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s exactly it.”

She nods in understanding and pulls him into a hug. He goes willingly, never one to turn down the affectionate gestures she gives sparingly but purposefully. If they’ve become more frequent as of late, he hasn’t complained.

“I love you, you know,” she murmurs, voice quiet but steady.

His whole body tenses but he doesn’t move as she continues to speak, her head on his shoulder but turned away from him so that he can’t see her face. And how he wants to be able to see her face right now, to look at her while she says the words because no, he didn’t know that. Of course he suspected it, hoped for it, ached for it far longer than any self-respecting person should have.

“I know I don’t...I’m not good with _saying_ it enough.”   
  
She shifts to face him and he can see her now, can see the emotions written plainly on her face, the ones she puts so much effort into hiding all the time that on the rare occasions where they break free, he holds onto them with everything he has.

“But Philip - _Mikhail_ \- I do love you. And I don’t think there’s anything left that could possibly happen to us that can change that.”

He can’t help himself, but he laughs. Not at her confession, never at that, but at the impossibility of it all. Every moment that brought them to this one point in time. And at how right she is. What else can life throw at them? They’ve been at the bottom and clawed their way back so many times and they’re still here, standing beside one another.

“There’s nothing,” he says, calming the look of concern on his wife’s face. “There’s nothing we can’t survive.”

She smiles, but there’s an expectant look on her face mixed with a bit of nerves.

“And?” she prompts.

“Aaaaand,” he repeats, drags out the word while he tries to guess at what she wants.

And then he realizes.

He’s such a fool.

He grabs her with no warning, pulls her forward and kisses her with everything he has until they’re both left panting for air.

As the pounding of his heart slows and his breath returns, he gives her what she wants, what he’s known to be true since the day that he met her.  
  
“I love you, too.”   
  
Her smile widens and she pushes herself up to kiss him again.

“And?” she whispers teasingly into his ear before she nips at the lobe.

His hips buck against hers and he groans as her teeth scrape along the flushed skin of his neck.

He hikes her legs up and around his waist and he carries her down the hall.

“And now I’m taking you to bed.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

After that, things between them are possibly the best they’ve ever been save for those few days of short-lived bliss after his trip to New York to see Irina. But even that was tainted by his lie. This time they’re being fully honest with one another.

Except his wife is restless. And so is he.

With no direction from the Centre on what they expect them to do with their lives now, they’ve gone on living as though they’re fully retired.

As much as his wife might get out of knitting and drawing, he knows she wants more, needs more.

They’ve both worked nearly their entire lives, from when they were children far too young for the responsibilities placed upon them, up until a few months ago. That drive is a switch that can be turned off temporarily, but not permanently, for people like them.

For several days he mulls over how to bring it up to her when she beats him to it and does it herself.

“I want to go back to work,” she blurts out on their morning walk.

He pauses mid-stride. She turns back.

“And what would you do?” he asks.

“I was thinking,” she pauses, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous tic. “Internal Affairs.”

It doesn’t take much for him to envision it.

“You’d be good for it.”  
  
He rejoins her and they continue along the path by the river, arms bumping amiably as they walk.

“What do you have to do to apply?” he asks.

“I’m not sure yet. I have to go to the office downtown.”  
  
“You should talk to the Centre.”   
  
She turns her head toward him, her surprise barely concealed.

“They could help,” he shrugs. “You know, speed the paperwork along.”

He doesn’t doubt that she could get a job on her own, she’s more than qualified for most of the positions she could apply for. But their years of service should afford them some benefits, and they should take advantage of them.

She considers this for a moment.

“You’re right. I’ll message Arkady tonight.”

In the time after their initial arrival back in Russia, Arkady became their de facto handler for lack of a better word. Mainly he was their liaison to Moscow and the Centre in the rare instances when they needed something. More importantly, he passed along news from the world beyond their little bubble in Samara.

Unfortunately, he has very little to tell them about their children. All he was able to confirm was that neither of them had been held by the FBI, and Henry was now living with the Beemans.

It wasn’t nearly enough, but it was better than nothing.

They finish their customary route along the river and head back to their apartment, the city more awake now than when they first set out. As they near the block where they live, Nadezhda finally asks the question he’s been waiting for.

“What about you?”

“What about me?” he tosses back. His attempt at a joke falls flat, the look on his wife’s face impatient.

“What will you do?”

He thinks on it, struggles to come up with an answer.

“I don’t know,” he says. And it’s the most honest response he has. He has no idea what he wants to do next.

“You could join me,” she offers. He can tell she’s not just saying it out of obligation; she actually wants it.

As much as he’d like to work with his wife again, he doesn’t think he can be a part of the government in that way. He doesn’t begrudge her for wanting to go back to it. It’s who she is, and he loves her. But for him, it’s not right.

He takes her gloved hand in his.

“I’d like that,” he starts. “But I can’t.”

He doesn’t have to say anything else, doesn’t have to explain it to her. She knows, and she accepts it.

“Well, you don’t have to decide right away,” she says. “We have time.”

And as they stroll to the end of the street, turn the corner and take the stairs up to their apartment, beholden to no one but themselves, the whole day stretched out before them, he realizes she’s right.

They have time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What should Philip do with his life??? Help the poor failed travel agent out.


End file.
